


Encouragement, Excuses and the Only Reason Why

by CharmingNotDarling



Category: Elementary (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:19:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmingNotDarling/pseuds/CharmingNotDarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She always knew he possessed the experience to set her entire world on fire, she just never knew he'd lace it in enough affection and care to have her emotions set aflame as well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just another piece I've moved over from ff.net. Set somewhere between seasons one and two... This presents itself in two parts... I hope you enjoy...

He hears her heels on the stairs and knows she's hesitant.

Whether it's in anticipation of the festivities she's promised to attend or his judgment in regards to her choices he cannot say. All he knows is he does not want her to go and it's troubling him as to why. She'd invited him to join her, played the act of partner, companion and finally friend, all while trying to acquire agreement on his part. The last was laced in enough sentiment to leave him more than slightly awestruck. In the end he reacted the only way he knew how and turned her down without reason or cause.

He's stood beside her all this time and managed to maintain a shell of indifference in regards to the simple fact that she is indeed a woman. It wasn't until their dynamic shifted, until she found her footing in her new place at his side, that his regard for her truly swayed. Her confidence cast her in a new light, brought the pieces of her he'd simply dismissed back into the forefront of his vision. Now she can't smile at him without his breath catching and his heartbeat stuttering.

He's not used to being caught off-guard by something as seemingly simple as beauty.

She stops at the threshold of the room and he can feel her gaze burning at the back of his head, a mirror of the blaze he's set before himself. She's lurking again, hovering like a hummingbird or, more accurately in his mind, like a guardian angel.

"This is becoming quite a habit of yours, Watson, lingering in doorways and almost saying what you're thinking." She shifts her feet, and though he doesn't see, he knows she's rolled her eyes in that way she has that involves almost no drama and too much grace.

He listens as she lifts off the doorframe and takes a few steps forward. She stops behind him, just over his right shoulder. Knowing she's purposefully staying out of his line of sight, he does not give in to the overwhelming desire to turn and see her. He can tell by the lack of sound that the dress she's chosen has little to it. He recognizes the tell of satin brushing skin and is startled to find he's wondering after the color she's chosen and how it plays in contrast to the raven hair she's left down to frame her face.

He can't begin to understand how he knows she's left it down.

They haven't spent a day apart since Moriarty left her mark on them. They've shared every meal, invaded every boundary, and slept nearly every night without a closed door between them. The last is more his doing than hers. He'd been unable to sleep with the brick and mortar of ceilings and walls sealing the distance between them, so on the nights she actually retired to her own bed, the chair below her window saw more of him than his own room. On the nights she seemingly couldn't drag herself away from their work, the couch in the front room did the trick for her and the floor beside it, the same for him.

He's never been faced with the need to protect before.

He's still trying to understand how she's managed to find the man behind the madness when he couldn't even find himself. How she continues to maintain a strong hold over his instincts to build walls between himself and the people who are daring enough to venture into his life. He's amazed to find she's single-handedly taken down the wall he'd erected between them and built a bridge from the rubble.

Now he gets to keep his distance, and she gets to breach his boundaries.

He's spent the majority of their time together giving himself the benefit of the doubt, for his open-mindedness and his ability to put some faith into someone, anything, again. And yet, these last few weeks have shown him that he had very little to do with it.

"I'm altogether sure you understand me well enough by now to know I'd rather the truth and the weight of its consequences than the burden of evasion that's left in the wake of all unsaid." He tries to sound bored, attempts to place some indifference between them.

He hears her sharp intake of breath over the pop and hiss of the fire. He knows she's startled and relieved and nervous all at once, wonders where all her insecurities are coming from. When she rounds the corner of his chair, places herself off the right of the mantel, he can see remnants of a Watson he hasn't seen in quite some time hovering behind her eyes. He sees the woman who couldn't find herself, the one who was unsure of where or if she actually belonged anywhere.

"I don't want to go." It's said on an out breath and it's heavy and fast, like it's been building inside for some time and the pressure has all at once become unbearable. She tries to make light of it, to make it sound ridiculous and slightly unimportant, but the words are coated in conviction. He thinks it may be the only thing she's confident of in the moment, and it's what she's clinging to.

He takes in the sight of her then; the satin of her dress is gathered over one hip and it pulls the fabric in such a way as to make the entire thing look like waves rippling over her body. The color bathed in firelight takes him back to London, reminds him of early evening twilight and how the remnants of the sun would play off the mist clinging to the air. How everything would be cloaked in a veil of pale gray and lavender, a web of delicacy that simply could not hide the strength underneath.

As predicted, her hair is a stark contrast and it pulls his eye to the waves that frame the column of her throat and further to the strands that shadow the rise of her cheek. It startles him to find that she's afflicted by his assessment. Their eyes meet briefly before she shifts to hide the mahogany gaze he knows is brimming with turmoil.

He's never seen her look more beautiful or less confident.

She shifts under his scrutiny and he clears his throat to push past the words gathered at the base of his tongue. He forces himself to thinking before he speaks and it's not something he's all together used to. He finds he wants to tell her that she's beautiful and that she shouldn't go, doesn't have to go, that she should stay with him, always. Because this is where she belongs, but in the end he disappoints himself.

"So what is it you've come looking for then? Encouragement, excuses?"

She turns to pace the length of the fireplace and rolls her eyes again. This time he sees a touch more drama and a little less grace.

She manages to cross his path once and then he moves so quickly, she's not the only one he startles.

He lunges forward, left hand taking hold of her thigh directly below the hem of her dress. His fingers find purchase along the curve behind her knee and they're gentle; the pressure he exerts to pull her toward him is more suggestion than demand. She meets his eye and follows his hold without a beat of hesitation. When her shin bumps the chair between his knees, he tugs again, this time with enough force to have her body cant toward him. She presses her knee to the leather and drops a hand to his shoulder to steady herself.

He holds her gaze and watches her eyes go wide as his fingers trail up the line of her inner thigh, stop when the satin hem catches his wrist, and then slowly trail back down.

She shifts her weight, drops her hand to the arm of the chair and the movement brings her face inches from his. It sends her hair flowing like a curtain around them, pooling along the line of his shoulders, throwing their expressions into near darkness.

He lifts his hands to cup her face and hears her nails tighten on the leather of the chair. His eyes instinctively lift and find hers in the barely-there light. There's desire swimming in her gaze, hesitation and doubt clouding her sight, but she lifts her feet off the floor and slides into his lap. Her breath is shallow and it catches when he drags both hands up the length of her thighs, pulls the satin up to lap at her waist so he can settle himself fully within the cradle of her hips. She leans in until their noses bump and then he drags her closer, their lips nearly brushing, until their cheeks rest side by side.

He gives in and presses his mouth to the curve of her jaw, trails upward and sinks his teeth into the flesh of her ear, continues back down along the column of her throat. He can't fight the rise of his hips when she lets out a breathy sigh at the contact. Her hands span his shoulders, nails searching for purchase along the shirt at his back before they rise to fist within his hair, pulling his torso off the chair and flush against her. She takes his face in her hands, drags his lips within a fraction of an inch of her own.

"No excuses," she all but whispers into his mouth; the tone has him opening eyes he didn't know he'd closed. He finds her watching him, her powers of observation honed and at the ready. "I don't want excuses." Her voice a little stronger the second time and he can't help but smile, because this is the Watson he's come to know and treasure beyond anything else in his life. This is the woman who demands that he meets her halfway, who never gives up and rarely gives in.

She's the only thing of any worth he's ever called his own.

He wants to tell her that she's worthy of so much more than something as simple as the truth. That there aren't words enough to do justice to the way she makes him feel. He knows this for certain because he's spent hours, days searching for them, scouring poetry and literature, trying to find a way to bring his devotion to voice.

He brushes her hair away from her face, drags a thumb over the freckles that pepper the bridge of her nose as he feathers the pads of his fingers along the line of her eyelashes.

He knows he's never experienced anything like this before, can't claim to understand how, fully clothed and without ever tasting her mouth, this has become the most intimate moment he's ever experienced. When he presses his lips to the hollow of her throat, feels her heart beat wildly beneath the silky skin, hears it echo within the drum of his own, he somehow knows they are more than the equals he had come to see them as.

"My dear Watson," He slips a hand behind her, feels the heat of the fire rival that of her skin as he takes the tiny zipper in his grasp, "No excuses or evasions or variations of the truth." She nods in agreement, drops her forehead to meet his as he begins to slowly pull the dress away from her back. His movements are slow, purposeful. His left hand pulls the tiny teeth of the dress apart and his right follows the path of her newly revealed spine.

"Stay." He tells her in same breathless way she had conveyed her desire not to go. He opens his mouth to say more, to hopefully find those words that continue to evade him, but she doesn't seem to need them.

She captures his lips, her tongue slipping gently into his mouth, and she's so warm and soft and powerful.

"Yes," she says as she slips from his lap, takes him by the hand, and leads him up the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She always knew he possessed the experience to set her entire world on fire, she just never knew he'd lace it in enough affection and care to have her emotions set aflame as well...

She feels him behind her on the stairs and knows he's hesitant.

Whether it's in anticipation of the night ahead or in regards to their choices, she cannot be sure. All she knows is she has never wanted anything the way that she wants them. Can't explain how the very thought of being with him has consumed her since Moriarty shattered the reality she'd once been forced to accept.

She turns to him the moment she crests the landing; the light is softer here- shades of gray and deep dark shadows. There's no sound but their breathing and the creak of the stairs. From a step above, and with the aid of her heels, they stand nearly level; for once the advantage is hers. She leans in and kisses him again, mouth and eyes open as she watches his features soften with the gentle press of her palm to his throat.

She's never seen him so relaxed before, so at ease with his surroundings. He's always maintained a safe distance from her, from everyone really, both emotionally and physically. She's always associated this with his self-induced solitude. Only now she stops to wonder if, here with her, it was merely self-preservation.

He takes her face in his hands and, god, he's so gentle. Fingertips on her skin and his lips like gossamer wings on her mouth. He tastes just as he ought to; like mischief and promises and the coffee they shared earlier that evening. There are no words between them. No need for them now when emotions can convey so much more, when touch and taste and sight and sound are all the mind can reach.

He pulls the dress from her skin right there on the stairs.

She meets his eyes in the shadows and they're bright and shiny and brimming with a focus she's never seen turned on her before. He slips his thumb within the gathering of material as it skims her ribs. The glossy fabric needs little help as he slides it over the slight swell of her hips and leaves it to pool at her feet.

He drags his eyes and the back of his hand across the planes of her stomach, she knows he feels the muscles ripple and the rise of goose bumps on her flushed skin. He raises both his hand and his eyes up over her sternum and continues over her left shoulder. Her breath catches at the barely-there press of his fingers now trailing her skin. The gentle caresses increase the thrumming of her heart almost instantly. She knows she will forever associate this hum of her blood with his touch. She releases a sigh laced tightly with satisfaction as the pad of his thumb traces every pearl of her spine, presses her forward until the lace of her bra meets the cotton of his shirt.

He leans in, lips pressing into the curve of her shoulder before following the line of her clavicle. She grabs for the banister and his shirt front when his mouth finally meets her skin. His hands continue down, following the valley of her waist along her back. When he palms her hips, pressing the span of his hands into her flesh, his grip tightens almost painfully before he lifts her off the floor.

She wraps her legs around him without thought or hesitation her hands in his hair and her mouth crushing his. He navigates the darkness without pause or doubt. He knows her room like he does his own. His fingers trace the dove gray lace along her hip. Follow it down around the back of her thigh. She moans into his mouth when his palms span her backside, fingers trailing low.

He sits at the edge of the bed, feet firmly planted on the floor. She rocks against him, can't think of anything but his skin on hers as he continues his exploration.

She reaches for the buttons of his shirt front, manages to flip two free before he surrenders her mouth and puts some distance between them. She searches his expression, fights the shimmer of arousal coating the edges of her vision and finds his eyes wandering the planes of her face. His fingers are everywhere; they're quick and gentle and they move in time with the ghosting of his eyes. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingers where they rest along his chest. She's relieved to find its staccato rhythm matches that of her own. She understands almost instantly that he is memorizing her, cataloging, analyzing, but not comparing.

"I've always considered beauty much the way I do fear," he clears the nerves and doubt from his throat, palms her cheek, "as an unproductive filter used to view and judge the world." His voice is soft and nearly apologetic. It dominates the silence and sends chills down her spine.

She takes a moment to calm her racing heart, to focus on his words instead of the press of his body and the heat of his mouth as he skims the wing of her cheek with his lips.

"But I must admit, I've never been more compelled by the reality of said beauty than I am in this moment." He whispers the last of it in her ear, fingers tangled in her hair, lips pressed to her temple. The words sound like some long-kept secret, endearments held tight against the battle with his pride.

She pulls back from the embrace, needs to see him to fully see him. When her eyes adjust enough to find him, his are serious. They're sharp and confident and she knows they would not be here if he wasn't sure of her, of himself, of them.

His choices are always driven by logic and ruled by emotion. Not governed by his feelings for others but by how the actions of others effect him in the moment. He cannot be swayed or led by false pretenses; how he feels has always been piloted by personal gain and solitary feeling. She's never known him to care much for what others think or feel.

Until now, until her.

She wonders where she will now fit back into his world. She's become such a large, defined part of it, and she knows it's not so often that his heart interferes with his mind.

She takes his face in both her hands, meets his eyes, his pupils huge in the lack of light. She longs for something to say, to tell him he's beautiful too, that there's never been anyone who meant as much or who managed to breach the barricades that guard her heart. She wants to tell him she feels the same, but in the end all she can manage is to put action behind the emotion that's clogging her throat.

She drops her arms to his shoulders, fingertips threading through his hair and mouth hot and impactful on his. He brings his hands from her hips, over the blades of her back, up and around to her collarbones in one fluid caress. She sighs into his mouth, rolls her hips with enough pressure to force a groan from his chest when his calloused palm skims the rise of her clavicle. He toys with the dove gray strap at her right shoulder before slowly slipping it down her arm.

His eyes are blade sharp as they watch her watch him, all silhouettes and shadows and fingers still so gentle.

She shifts to remove the bra entirely, impatience and desire laced tightly in her reflexes. He covers her hand with his own, slips the clip from its clasp all while guiding her fingers. He shifts again, lifts them both and just as quickly he is laying her down on the bed, fingers in her hair at the base of her skull and gripping her hip beneath the small band of lace at her waist, strength and tenderness radiating from his grip.

He hovers above her, elbows and knees ensuring she feels none of his weight. She takes the opportunity to work further on the buttons of his shirt. She needs to feel him and tells him so. She catches his reaction in the dusky air and finds devotion in its purest form staring back at her.

She struggles to push the sleeves from his arms. When he rises up to his knees to remove it himself, she lifts up to mirror him. She kisses him while he's busy trying to free his hands behind his back, works the buckle of his belt and the button of his jeans while he's struggling to free his wrists from the cuffs. But before she can finish, he lays her back down, slips the lace from her waist before once again palming her hip.

She's known all along that he is beyond detailed in every aspect of his life, and yet she never thought he would be such a profound lover. 'Egotistical' and 'self-indulgent' are words she once thought to use while describing him. Now she's wondering how she could ever been so wrong. She hasn't yet decided if it's his experience or simply his devotion that's consuming her completely. She hadn't, until recently, given much thought to the prospect of ever knowing what he tasted like, what his callused palm would feel like trailing the seam of her thigh, or how her treacherous body would buckle the moment his fingers hit her skin.

She watches him drink in every angle of her face, knows he's long ago committed her features, her reactions, her tells to memory. So she can't imagine what he hopes to find there that hasn't always been plain as day to see. Hopes whatever he finds, it's what he's been looking for.

He leans in then, fingers finding purchase within the masses of her hair. He gives a gentle tug, draws her chin up, and exposes the ivory column of her throat. On a reflex she doesn't even recognize, she closes her eyes when his lips find her collarbone.

They find a rhythm- hips and hands and the white-hot heat that grips them both. She always knew he possessed the experience to set her entire world on fire, she just never knew he'd lace it in enough affection and care to have her emotions set aflame as well.

His hands are sure and she feels as if he's always known her like this. He's gentle and firm and full of the keys that unlock all of her secrets and the strength to take down all of the walls that surround her carefully guarded heart.

"Open your eyes." He murmurs softly just before dragging his teeth along the shell of her ear as their rhythm begins a steady climb.

She wants to tell him she can barely remember how to breathe, let alone lift the heavy lids, but all she can manage is to string together a hoarse whisper of "Oh god, don't stop, don't stop, don't stop."

She rolls her hips as his teeth stake claim along the soft flesh of her breast. She can feel the desperation in his movements now. It rekindles the fire smoldering under her skin. She knows he wanted this, knows she means too much to him to be nothing more than another sexual conquest. She wonders if he's realized that she holds him at a disadvantage; sex and emotion have always gone hand in hand for her, but devotion in any physical form is a rarity in his life.

She grips his forearm and the ends of his hair as she feels her body begin to tumble toward surrender. He increases the pressure and she lifts her hips, his hands constant on her body. They moan together as her body grips his and their heartbeats roar like thunder in the room.

Later, when her mind can once again focus, she'll look back to this exact moment in time. She'll marvel over the fact that there are so few events in life that capture a person so completely, that encompass every sense, every depth of emotion, that manage to bleed across every plain of individual spectrum.

She feels as if she knows him completely now.


End file.
